Tasty Morsels
by dharmamonkey
Summary: *UPDATED 9/24/2013!* A series of food-related B&B one-shots. Brennan plus Booth plus food can lead to all kinds of hilarious hijinks. Bon appetit!
1. Scrapple

**A/N****: **_I don't own _Bones. _I would, however, be interested in renting Booth by the hour (a five-hour minimum would apply)._

_This is a little one-shot that came to mind after reading my friend Diko's review of chapter 42 of "Everything Happens Eventually."_

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><p>"You two decide what you want?" the fifty-something waitress asked, her lips fanned with fine lines that revealed her to be a life-long smoker.<p>

"Yes," Brennan said. "I'll have a poached egg, rye toast and fresh fruit. Oh, and a glass of your fresh-squeezed orange juice."

"And you, handsome?" Brennan raised an eyebrow as Booth grinned.

"I'll have the #2 breakfast special with three eggs over hard, wheat toast, hash and scrapple. And a glass of milk."

The waitress scribbled their order on her mint-green notepad and walked away.

Brennan watched her disappear behind the swinging door to the kitchen. "Booth, your breakfast order doesn't sound very healthy."

"Yeah," he said. "So?" He smirked, then narrowed his eyes critically. "Hey, who says it's not healthy? I need lots of protein to feed these muscles of mine you like and those carbs for energy. And milk for strong bones. You know—_milk, it does a body good._" He could tell by her expression that she had no idea about the ad campaign he was referring to, and he couldn't help but snicker.

"_Hmmph_," she grunted dismissively. "What on earth is _scrapple _anyway?"

Booth looked up and closed one eye, trying to remember exactly what the constituent ingredients of scrapple were. Brennan's question brought forth a wave of memories that washed over him as he considered the answer. He thought back to his grandmother—her face bathed in the morning sun as it shone through the slats of the vinyl blinds—and the countless hours he spent in her kitchen watching her cook.

"Um..."

"Uh-oh." Brennan rolled her eyes. "Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to want to hear the answer, Booth?"

He laughed. "Scrapple is, like the name suggests, made from pork scraps," he said.

"Pork scraps?"

"Um, yeah," he said hesitatingly. "You know, the bits and pieces leftover after processing the rest of the animal—the head, feet, tail, bones, organs like heart, liver and kidneys. My Grams used to make scrapple from scratch. She'd buy the pork scraps from the neighborhood butcher, boil it all in a pot until it all cooks down, discard the bones and fat, then she'd mix the meaty broth with cornmeal, buckwheat flour and spices until it forms a mush. Then she'd form the mush into loaves, like little loaves of bread, then let it cool until set. Then she'd slice up the loaves, fry up the slices, and _wham_—scrapple!"

"That sounds absolutely disgusting, Booth," she said, her lips twisted in revulsion. "You would actually eat that?"

"Absolutely," he laughed. "It's very tasty. Goes great with eggs. A lot of fairs in Pennsylvania and Delaware will have kiosks that sell scrapple sandwiches."

"Sounds nasty," she said. "I'm very glad I'm a vegetarian."

Booth scowled. "Now, wait a minute. You're being pretty judgmental about this, Bones, which is kind of unlike you. An anthropologist like you should be more open-minded about this kind of thing."

"How so?" she bristled.

"Think of scrapple as recycling," he said. "It's putting the leftover bits of the animal to good use and reducing waste."

"It's still gross," she said. "Even people who aren't vegetarians would likely find that to be a pretty disgusting thing to eat."

"Now wait—a lot of ethnic or regional dishes involve comfort foods that utilize what would otherwise be considered waste products: sausages of all kinds, tongue, chopped liver, pickled pig's feet, head cheese, lutefisk, gefilte fish, oxtail stew, tripe, barbacoa."

"That's true," she admitted with reservation in her voice. "But it still—"

She was interrupted by the sound of a bell in the kitchen.

"Come on, Bones," he said somewhat pleadingly. "There must be some deeper anthropological meaning to it all—I mean, why the parts of these ethnic cuisines that die so hard as traditions are those involving use of waste products. Right?"

The waitress returned to their table, a plate in each hand. As she set Booth's plate down in front of him, Brennan eyed his breakfast, in particular the square of scrapple on the side of the dish. It looked like a thin slice of pan-fried meatloaf, but the thought of its ingredients made her stomach turn a little. Booth caught her staring at his food and offered nothing but a smug grin in return. He grabbed the bottle of ketchup, squirted a bit of it on his corned beef hash and then dug into his Philly-style breakfast.

A couple of minutes later she broke the silence.

"Okay," she said with a sigh as she mopped up the last of her egg yolk with her rye toast.

"What?" he said, holding up a small square of scrapple on the tip of his fork with a smirk.

"You're right," she said quietly, knowing he loved to hear her say that—as rare a phenomenon as that was.

"About what?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"You know what," she retorted. He just shook his head and popped the ketchup-smeared square of scrapple into his mouth with a satisfied grin.

"_Hmmmph,_" he grunted as he cut into the last of his eggs.

She cocked her head and leveled a glare in his direction.

"I would theorize that these types of foods—scrapple and the like—remain popular with certain ethnic and regional cultural groups because they are distinct cultural markers that distinguish the experience of that group from other cultural groups. These foods serve as reminders of earlier times when better, more expensive foods were unavailable or unaffordable, and retaining those foods as a cultural practice is a way of passing down the memory of those difficult times from one generation to the other."

"I think I know what you mean," he said with a nod. "Want some?" he asked, looking up at her with a smile and wagging a forkful of scrapple over her plate.

"I think not, Booth," she growled.

"And to think all this time that you were a proponent of recycling..." he quipped.

"Shut up, Booth," she said. "Finish your breakfast—we've got a witness to interview in a half hour."

He nodded and made quick work of the last of his eggs and scrapple.

"You don't know what you're missing, Bones," he said teasingly.

"I do, Booth," she snapped back. "And that's precisely the problem."

They both laughed as Booth signaled for the check.

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><p><em>Please don't read and run. Leave a review, dammit! Good, bad, indifferent or insulting. Any review is better than no review.<em>


	2. Okra

**A/N: **_I don't own _Bones. _I would, however, be interested in renting Booth by the hour (a five-hour minimum would apply)._

_"If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. _

_How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?" _

—_Pink Floyd, "Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2"_

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><p>"What the hell is this, Bones?"<p>

"What are you talking about, Booth?"

"Bones, this looks like Airsoft BB pellets swimming with shrimp in bloody snot."

Brennan frowned. "I don't know what that means, but you're being foolish," she said. "This is Creole gumbo, Booth. Here, take some more shrimp." She ladled more of the dish into his bowl. "I got the recipe from Caroline," she noted. "It's actually from an old family recipe passed down to her by her grandmother."

"Well," Booth growled, dropping his spoon onto his plate with a clatter.. "I don't care if you got the recipe from the Pope, it still looks like plastic BBs floating in bloody snot."

"You said that already," she growled back. "And I don't know what your problem is. You ate those _amuses bouches _that Gordon Wyatt prepared for us the night before your pistol requalification, and that looked far worse. Even _he _admitted it looked like sperm on corn smut."

"That's different," he said, the memory of that particular dish at the chef's table at _La Coupole _making him feel a little foolish, though he dared not let Bones see him squirm. That little appetizer, with its mysterious translucent white sauce drizzled—or rather, glopped—over sauteed spinach really did look like one of the _sous chefs _had ejaculated on the dish immediately prior to serving.

"I don't see why," she said. "In fact, that white sauce was visually indistinguishable from semen." Booth groaned. "But it didn't taste like it, though, not that you would probably know."

"God, Bones," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to banish the idea that he might have eaten something resembling—

"It was a bit too sweet and not salty enough," she said with a wicked grin.

"I can't believe you just said that," he groaned. Except, of course, he could—he was hardly surprised anymore by the surprisingly inappropriate things that she said under even the most inappropriate circumstances.

"So you ate _that, _which clearly resembles something you would never put in your mouth—even though you're more than willing to put it in _my_ mouth, by the way—but you won't eat this, even though it doesn't look nearly as bad, and is in fact prepared from a friend's old family recipe?"

"Fine," he said, shaking his head and picking up his spoon. He could hardly believe that she had actually shamed him into eating the gumbo.

"Besides," she said. "You know you'll want dessert. It's your favorite: vanilla pudding." She bit her lip to keep from laughing at the thought that popped into her mind. "If you don't eat your gumbo, you can't have any pudding. How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your gumbo?"

Suddenly, Booth sorely regretted sitting down to watch Pink Floyd's_ The Wall _with her on Friday night. He should've known that, with her photographic memory and his love of pudding, that line would get him into trouble.

"Okay, Bones—you win..." He rolled his eyes and scooped up a spoonful of the shrimp gumbo, eyeing the okra suspiciously as he put it into his mouth. She narrowed her eyes as she watched for his reaction. He swallowed, waited a few second then cleared his throat. "Actually, this is pretty good. A bit spicy, but good."

"I told you it'd be better than BBs in bloody snot," she said.

"Okay, enough," he said. "I'm sorry I said anything."

Once again, she'd been right. She smirked, shaking her head and wondering when he would finally get used to the fact that she was almost always right.

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><p><em>Please don't read and run. Leave a review, dammit!<br>Good, bad, indifferent or thoroughly insulting.  
>Any review is better than no review.<em>

_Lurkers—come out and play! Leave a review so I can thank you appropriately.  
><em>


	3. Buffaloes and Hot Dogs

**A/N**: Hart Hanson owns Bones, but he doesn't give you all the great B&B moments you crave. That's why you read fanfic :-)

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><p>"Ma'am?"<p>

Brennan set her menu on the table. "Yes," she said, ignoring her companion's smirk. "I'll start with the _insalata caprese_, and for my entree I'll have the wild-caught cedar-plank salmon."

The waiter nodded and turned to Booth. "Sir?"

Booth drummed his fingers on the tablecloth as he made his selection. "I'll start with a caesar salad," he said, unable to contain his grin, "and I'll have the buffalo New York Strip," he said. "Medium rare."

"And for your side dishes?" the waiter asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Lobster mac and cheese," Booth said. Brennan narrowed her eyes and shot him a strange look. "What?" he asked in feigned shock. "Don't give me that look—you'll love it, Bones. It won't be as good as yours, but it'll be awesome. Just you wait."

Brennan rolled her eyes. "We'll also have the asparagus," she said. "Hold the hollandaise sauce."

"Come on, Bones," Booth groaned. "That's the best part."

"Ugh," she grunted and turned to the waiter. "Hold the hollandaise sauce, please," she said, ignoring Booth's petulant sigh.

"Alright," the waiter said with a vague smile as he took their menus and tucked them under his arm. "I'll be right back with your salads."

Booth watched the waiter walk away and smoothed his tie. "This is great, Bones," he said. "I'm glad we found the time to enjoy a nice restaurant for a change."

"Well," she said. "The FBI expense account is extraordinarily stingy, but since it's our last night in Chicago, I thought it made sense to do something besides a chain restaurant, a street-food truck or a diner."

"The street food here is pretty good," Booth observed. "Great hot dogs."

"True," Brennan agreed, "even though you ordered your hot dog wrong."

"What?"

"You put ketchup, spicy mustard and sauerkraut on your hot dog," she observed. "That's a sure sign that you're an out-of-towner." She lifted her glass and took a sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. "A Chicago-style hot dog comes with chopped onions, sweet pickle relish, yellow mustard, tomatoes, pickled peppers and a dash of celery salt."

"Tomatoes on a hot dog?" Booth furrowed his brow and shook his head. "That's just wrong."

"Actually, the Chicago hot dog has an interesting history, Booth," Brennan said. "The story is that a shop called Fluky's developed a 'Depression Sandwich' that included an all-beef weiner—because the proprietors were Jewish, so they wouldn't serve pork—and a large serving of complementary fresh and pickled vegetables, because they were cheaper and more filling than meat, so you could get twice as full on a nickel's worth of sandwich."

"That is interesting," Booth admitted, taking a sip of his Cabernet—which he had only recently started drinking again after a long hiatus precipitated by the case involving the wine critic whose pickled corpse was found in a cask of Cabernet—and loosening his tie. "But still, I like ketchup on my hot dogs. You can call it crass or proletarian, Bones, but that's just the way it is."

The waiter returned with their salads.

"Ma'am," he said, gently placing her _insalata caprese _in front of Brennan. "Your buffalo mozzarella salad," he said with a nod, then turned to Booth to deliver his caesar salad. "Fresh ground pepper, anyone?" They both nodded, and the waiter ground up a generous dusting of pepper over each of their salads. "Enjoy your salads," he said with a smile, then walked away.

"See?" Booth said with a grin. "We've got something in common—you ordered a buffalo mozzarella salad, and I ordered a buffalo steak."

Brennan smirked. "Booth, they are from completely different animals," she said, rolling her eyes at his ignorance—which she sometimes had trouble determining was real or feigned. "This cheese, _mozzarella di bufala, _comes from the milk of the domesticated water buffalo, _Bubalus bubalis. _ The steak you ordered is actually not even from a true buffalo, but rather from the American bison, _bison bison. _They aren't even the same genus. Bison have shaggy coats and are native to colder climates like the northern American plains and northern Europe, whereas true buffalo are native to Asia and Africa and have been domesticated in southern Europe."

Feeling thoroughly put into his place, Booth sighed. "Okay, well, I guess we don't have that much in common after all," he laughed.

"That's too bad," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "Too bad, isn't it?"

They laughed, and clinked their glasses together.

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><p><em>Please don't read and run.<br>Please review! Good, bad, indifferent or insulting.  
>Any review is better than no review.<em>


	4. The Omelet

**A/N****: **_I don't own Bones. I would, however, be interested in renting Booth. (A five-hour minimum would apply. I wouldn't even make him cook.)_

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><p>"God, Bones," Booth said, rolling onto his back, his sweat-slicked chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. "Damn, you're amazing."<p>

Brennan turned onto her side to face him, his features illuminated by the half-light of a streetlight outside the window and the faint red flicker of the neon sign belonging to the liquor store below Booth's apartment. She laughed a low, throaty giggle, the one that he knew he would never tire of hearing.

"You're not so bad yourself," she said with a smile, her voice still somewhat breathless as she stroked her index finger along the space between his pectoral muscles. He shuddered at her touch, then rolled his shoulder as if to chase away the twitch as he leaned in closer to her, cupping his hand around her jaw as he kissed her. She opened her mouth to him, their lips grasping at one another as she moaned into his kiss.

He kissed her once more then pulled away, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone as he rolled over and threw his legs over the side of the bed.

"Where are you going?" she asked, a twinge of hurt and uncertainty in her voice.

"I'm hungry, Bones," he said, looking over his shoulder with a toothy grin. "You're gonna wear me out, woman. The least you can do is give me a chance to feed the beast." He waggled his eyebrows at her as he stood up and stretched. "You hungry?" he asked.

Brennan shook her head. "Not at present," she replied, propping her head on her hand as her eyes skimmed over Booth's naked form in the dim light.

"Are you checking me out?" he asked with a cocky smile.

"Of course, Booth," she chuckled. "I thought you were hungry."

"I am," he said. "I'll be back in a minute." He smiled at her, his eyes caressing her curvy form, his glance pausing as it came to rest briefly on the round swell of her belly. He felt a warm surge in his chest as he thought about his child growing inside of her, and how much he loved her. "Don't go anywhere," he said as he turned and walked toward the kitchen.

Brennan brought her hand to her belly and cupped her hand over her navel. It had been a strange and amazing five months since the night she and her partner first came together in the very bed she lay in, in the early hours of the morning following the murder of her beloved intern, Vincent. They had been moving closer together, the two of them, even before that night, but something about losing Vincent—and the knowledge that, had Booth not passed his phone to her intern, Broadsky's bullet would have struck him instead—seemed to dissolve whatever hesitation either of them had left. They made love that night, neglecting to take any precautions that night as they came together literally in the heat of passion, and—

A clattering in the kitchen shook Brennan from the memory. She sat up in bed and leaned over, trying unsuccessfully to see into Booth's kitchen.

"Is everything okay?" she called out to him.

"Yeah," he called back. "No problem, Bones."

After six years of working with Booth every day, and five months of falling asleep beside him each night and waking up next to him every morning, Brennan had learned to recognize the subtle variations in his voice patterns. And the way he said "No problem" sounded awfully sheepish to her ear. She took a breath and swung her legs over the side of his bed. She stood up and put on her robe, then began to walk towards the kitchen. She stopped as she reached the doorway of the bedroom, then turned back to retrieve her cell phone from the nightstand on her side of the bed. She dropped the phone into the pocket of the robe and walked into Booth's living room, padding quietly as she made her way across the hardwood floor.

"Okay," she heard him whisper over crackle of something frying on the stove. "Mushrooms...okay." She moved as quietly as she could before stopping a couple of feet in front of the snack bar that separated his galley kitchen from the living room. "Cheese," he said quietly, opening the refrigerator and reaching in to grab a bag of shredded cheddar. A smile broke across Brennan's face as she watched Booth standing there, his back turned, unaware that she stood behind him as he focused on the task in front of him. He opened the package of cheese and sprinkled a generous handful over the eggs and mushrooms in the pan, then set the bag of cheese to the side and reached for the spatula. He whistled softly as he gently pried the egg from the edge of the pan and folded the omelet in half. Brennan nearly lost her own focus as her glance moved from his rounded, muscular shoulders down his back to his narrow, bony hips and to his firm, well-toned gluteus maximus muscles.

Booth cleared his throat as he twirled the spatula in his hand, and Brennan pulled her eyes away from his backside and reached into the pocket of her robe. She double-checked to make sure the phone was set on silent, then held it up, framing the picture perfectly as Booth lifted the frying pan from the burner and, with a well-practiced flick of his wrist, flipped the omelet in the pan. At that moment, before he could set the pan down, she pressed the camera button and captured the image of her partner, a spatula in his left hand, a buttery omelet in the frying pan he held in his right, and not a stitch of clothing covering his body. Brennan nodded and grinned in satisfaction before sliding her phone back into her pocket.

"Hey, Booth," she said, leaning over the snack bar as he turned around.

"Hey, Bones," he said, his voice warm as he opened the cabinet next to the stove. "Hungry?" he asked. "It's mushroom and cheese. We can share."

"Okay," she said. "Maybe just a little." She watched him slide the finished omelet onto a plate and pull two forks out of the silverware drawer.

They sat down at his dining room table and Booth immediately began digging into his omelet. Brennan reached over with her fork and cut out a generously-sized piece, blew on it a little and then took a bite.

"This is very good. " she said. "I had no idea you were so good at cooking so many variations on fried eggs."

Booth smiled and arched his eyebrow. "Hey, Bones—what did I tell ya? I'm a constant surprise."

Brennan laughed. "That's true," she said, reaching for another forkful of omelet.

"Hey!" Booth cried in feigned offense. "You've eaten more than half of my omelet."

"Really?" she said, her innocent look betrayed by the flicker of laughter in her pale eyes. "I didn't realize..."

Booth shook his head. "You know, I should be used to this by now. You've been eating my fries for six and a half years now. I don't think I've ever seen you order your own fries, you know—"

"I don't have to," she said, quickly swallowing a large bite. "I know you'll always share with me," she smirked.

Booth looked down at the plate and saw her reach for the last bite of omelet. "Hey," he said, grabbing her wrist before she could take it. "I need that energy to keep up with you, you little minx," he said with a laugh.

"Would you deny your child the nutrition he or she needs for proper fetal development?" Brennan retorted, wiggling free from his grasp and spearing the last bite of omelet with her fork. She hesitated, holding her fork in front of her face, wagging it a little as she watched Booth's reaction.

"Fine," he said. "But you're gonna pay." He narrowed his eyes and flashed his eyebrows suggestively.

Brennan popped the last bite of omelet into her mouth and winked. "Bring it on, Booth."

The next morning, Booth prepared breakfast as Brennan sat at the dining room table, flipping through a folder full of end-of-case paperwork that was due at the Hoover at nine. She sat back from the table, no longer able to pull her lap under the table due to the fullness of her belly. She reached over to the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table and speared a piece of pineapple with her fork.

"Dammit," she hissed as the piece of fruit fell off the fork, bounced off her belly and onto the floor. The errant pineapple chunk left a wet smudge on her black blouse, and Brennan was brushing the side of her hand across the smudge when she heard the tell-tale _snap-click _of Booth's smartphone camera. "Booth—" she warned him, her voice sharp with annoyance.

"Oh, come on, Bones," he said with a grin, setting his phone back on the counter as he brought two plates of scrambled eggs to the table. "Angela will love it," he said. "How many times did you see her do that when she was pregnant?"

"You won't be sharing that photo, or any of the other ones you take from this point forward, with anyone," she said, using a napkin to wipe as much of the pineapple juice off her blouse as she could.

"Bones," he said in a warm, pleading voice. "I've got all kinds of cute photos of you. Like that one I took of you on the platform the other day..."

"I have a pretty cute one of you, Booth," Brennan said, her mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Would you like to see it?"

Booth pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. He knew that tone of voice, and he knew it meant only one thing: he was in deep, deep trouble. She reached over to the far side of the table to grab her phone and, with a few easy strokes on the touchscreen, opened up the photo gallery.

"I think this one is very cute," she said, arching her eyebrow as she handed him the phone. Booth took the phone from her and glanced at the screen, his cheeks and ears reddening as he saw the photo.

"You didn't," he said.

She laughed. "Yes, I did."

Booth shrugged. "Well, at least my back is turned," he observed. He could feel his ears burning as she looked at him expectantly.

"I don't think you'll be sharing any of those photos with Angela or anyone else," Brennan said with a smile.

"Are you blackmailing me, Bones?" Booth asked, smirking at the memory of the way she had essentially blackmailed him during the Cleo Ellers case. "Blackmailing a federal agent is a crime."

"Uh-huh," she replied.

"I don't like this," he said petulantly.

Brennan chuckled. "I'm fairly certain you're not supposed to."

"Fine," Booth said. "You win."

"You can take photos, Booth," she said. "But no sharing unless I concur. Otherwise, I'm sure Caroline would love to see—"

"Okay, okay!" Booth held his hands up in defeat. "No sharing."

"Good," Brennan said with a smile. "I'm glad we have an understanding."

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><p><em>That was my take on The Omelet.<em>

_What do you think?_

_You know what to do, people.  
>Click that little review button down there.<em>

_Yep, that's the one._


	5. The Winter Classic

**Disclaimer:** I obviously don't own _Bones _(if I did, I wouldn't have waited until the end of Season 6 to get them together). I would, however, be interested in renting Booth by the hour. (A five-hour minimum would apply.)

* * *

><p><strong>The Winter Classic<strong>

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><p><strong>AN:** _Inspired by the 2012 Winter Classic, played 1/2/2012 between Booth's favorite Philadelphia Flyers and their hated rivals, the New York Rangers, and by my friend CrayonClown, who like Brennan is heavy with child, prone to cravings and stealing her partner's food. Banged this little ditty out in an hour. Hope you folks like it._

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><p>"Orange and black, baby!" Booth shouted at the TV, pointing with his free hand as he took a long swig of his Yuengling beer. "Yeah!" He pumped his fist with a wide grin. "Huh, how's that, New York? Uh?"<p>

"Booth," Brennan said, plunking down on the couch next to him as the game broadcast broke to a commercial. "I want you to get me some tamales."

"You want me to get you _what?" _ he asked, turning away from the hockey game with a slight scowl on his face. "Come on, Bones, it's the Winter Classic here—Flyers versus Rangers, outdoors, at Citizens Bank, in Philly."

Brennan rolled her eyes and rubbed her palm over her pregnant belly. "I want tamales, Booth," she said. "I haven't had hardly any cravings over the course of this pregnancy. The one time I do, you balk at helping me satisfy it."

"Seriously, Bones?" Booth rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and let his chin fall to his chest with a hint of melodrama. "It's the middle of the second period. Can't you, well, you know, maybe redirect your craving to attach to something we've got around the house—you know, like Cheetos or guacamole?" He picked up a bamboo bowl and waggled it in front of her before realizing that there wasn't much left except a few broken pieces of Cheetos and a thick layer of orange dust that caked the inside of the bowl.

She shook her head as the Nissan Frontier ad cycled for the third time in the foregoing five minutes. "That's not how cravings work, Booth," she said with a frown.

"Are you pouting, Bones?" he asked, jerking his head over as he saw a Flyer break away and take a shot on the Rangers goal. _She never used to pout, _he noted silently. _She's getting good at this._

"Maybe," she said glumly, a smirk cracking through her dour expression. "Please, Booth…unless you want me to run out in this cold and—"

The sports announcer's voice interrupted her. _"…And that's the end of the second period of play! Flyers in the lead, two to one, going into the third."_

"Okay—fine," Booth said, getting up from the couch and grabbing his shoes. "Where do I even find said tamales?" He grumbled something inaudible under his breath as put his foot on a chair and cinched the laces tight.

"Manuel's on Connecticut Avenue," Brennan replied quickly. "I'll call ahead so you can just pick them up." She grunted softly as she heaved herself up from the couch, holding her lower back for support as she walked over to the dining room table where Booth was shrugging into his black leather jacket.

He watched her walk over to him, one hand on her back and the other palmed over her swollen belly. "You know," he said, stepping closer and placing his larger hand over hers. "You are the only woman who could ever tear me away from a hockey game to fetch her take-out," he said with a grin.

"You're just saying that because I'm carrying your child," she said with a faint smile as she stared for a moment at the sight of his large, strong hand with its thick fingers splayed across her abdomen.

Pushing her hand aside and rubbing his palm over her navel, he leaned in to kiss her on the temple and whispered, "You know that's not true."

"I know," she said, raising her head and catching his lips with hers. "_Mmmmm_," she murmured into his kiss.

"You better," he mumbled back with a smile as he pulled away. He grabbed his keys off the foyer table and headed out the door. "I'll be back in a bit."

"I do," she whispered after the door closed. She picked up her cell phone and dialed.

"Yes, _hola_—"

"_Bien, gracias._ _¿Y Usted?_"

"Yes, I'd like to place an order _para llevar_—"

"Yes, three orders of your vegetarian _tamales_."

"Pickup will be for Booth—"

"Okay, great. He'll be there in ten minutes—"

"Terrific. Thank you."

Brennan hung up the phone and, with a quick glance towards the TV, which still blared on in the background with the intermission report, she smiled.

"Thank you, Booth," she said.

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><p><strong>AN:** _So, how'd you like that one? If this was part of its own, free-standing piece, it'd be rated K. I blew my smutwad earlier this afternoon, so all I had left was cute fluff. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, LOL._

_But don't leave me guessing. Please leave a review._

_You know what to do, people. Click that little review button down there._

_Yep, right down there. That's the one._


	6. The Winter Classic, Part II

**Disclaimer:** _I obviously don't own Bones (if I did, I wouldn't have waited until the end of Season 6 to get them together). I would, however, be interested in renting Booth by the hour. (A five-hour minimum would apply.)_

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><p><strong>The Winter Classic, Part II<strong>

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><p><strong>AN****:** _Since it turned out that the Flyers lost the game, some people suggested that Booth maybe needed some cheering up afterwards. Which means only one thing. Yeah, M-rated B&B goodness, which my muse was willing to cooperate with providing on short notice. So here you go._

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><p>"Son of a bitch!" Booth yelled, slamming his bottle of beer on the coffee table. "Dammit! What the fuck?"<p>

Brennan looked over with concern. "I take it something really bad just occurred?" she asked cautiously, peeling the husk off the second to last of her tamales—she had Booth pick up three orders, but only ate half of what he brought back, opting to freeze the rest.

"Yeah," Booth growled. "Flyers just missed a penalty shot with nineteen seconds left. That was their best chance at scoring the tying goal and they friggin' blew it."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Booth," she said. "It's still possible they could score and win, right?"

He rolled his eyes and frowned then, realizing that his partner was trying to comfort him, turned to her and smiled. "It's possible, but highly unlikely. Especially because the Flyers' goaltending has kinda sucked most of the night."

"Would you like the last one?" she asked him, peeling away the husk and handing him the last tamale. "It's corn _masa _stuffed with jalapeños and cheese," she explained. "You'll like it."

Booth accepted the tamale, holding it gingerly between his thumb and index finger as he took a bite, unable to suppress a smile as he watched his partner watch him. "_Mmmm_," he murmured. "That's actually pretty good." He swiveled his head and returned his attention to the game, jumping up from the couch and moving his hands animatedly. "Come on, come on, _come on!"_ he exhorted his team, but to no avail. Thirty seconds later, it was over. "Fuck," he muttered, picking up his beer and swallowing the last quarter of it in one gulp as he plunked himself back down onto the sofa in dejection.

"Think of the upside, Booth," Brennan said, sliding over next to him so that their hips touched.

He rolled his head over his shoulder to look at her with narrowed eyes. "What's that?"

"You won't want to watch the post-game show," she said quietly with a vague grin. She placed her hand on Booth's thigh and began sliding her fingers along the inside seam of his sweats.

"What if I want to?" he asked, licking his lips and squirming just a little in his seat as he watched her hand make its way northward.

"You don't," Brennan replied, a lascivious smile on her lips. She ran her hand all the way up the inside seam of his pants, brushed against his groin with the side of her hand, then pulled her hand away and, with a soft grunt, stood up from the couch and began walking to the bedroom.

Booth watched her walk away, lifting her arms up as she peeled her maternity top over her head and dropped it just inside the bedroom door. He felt a tightening in his groin and a tugging sensation behind his navel as he admired the flawless, ivory skin of her naked back, the curves of which were slightly smoother than they used to be. He watched her turn slightly so that he could see the full, round swell of her pregnant belly as she reached down and slid her stretch pants off her hips. A raw, electric tingle shot through him, from the base of his spine down his legs to the tips of his toes. He swallowed hard and reached for the remote. With a quick _click, _the TV fell silent and Booth stood up to make his way to the bedroom.

As he reached the bedroom door, he heard her before he saw her.

"You're sad about the game?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, feigning as glum a tone of voice as he could muster knowing that she was waiting for him, ready and willing to assuage whatever anguish he felt at the Flyers' loss. "It was a tough loss," he added, keeping his head down, knowing what he would find arrayed in front of him on the bed if he looked. "Real tough."

"I wonder if there's something I could do to cheer you up," Brennan mused, her smile bleeding through in the tone of her voice.

"I doubt it," Booth replied, still averting his eyes and clinging to the hangdog expression on his face as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and slid them off his hips.

"That's too bad," she said. "Because I really hate to see you sad like this. I'd do anything to cheer you up, you know."

He bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling, laughing or looking up at her. He turned away from the bed and, noting the pile of dirty laundry that overflowed from his hamper, reached down, crossed his arms and grabbed the bottom hem of his Flyers' T-shirt. He lifted the T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the top of the laundry pile. "I'm not sure there's anything you can say or do that will make me feel better," he said with a smirk, kicking his sweats over towards the laundry pile. He sighed dramatically but his sigh ended in a snort and he almost lost it completely as he slid his boxer shorts off his hips and stepped out of them.

Brennan watched him strip down in intense interest. She never tired of watching him undress, even after five months of watching him do so, and she doubted at this point if she ever would. After his T-shirt came off, she stared at his back and shoulders, remembering how arousing she had found the sight of his bare back the very first time she had seen it—the day she had to remove his clothing for evidence after he had responded to that bank robbery some years back and the robber, clad in a Santa costume, had blown up, and Booth had been splattered with some of the Santa-robber's remains. She loved the way his acromion came to a point on the outside of his shoulder joint, the way his well-toned deltoid muscles rounded out and the way his highly-developed trapezius muscle fanned out from the base of his neck and across the middle of his back. She never tired of watching him do pull-ups or chin-ups and seeing all of those incredible muscles twitch and quiver underneath his smooth olive skin, and—

"Actually," he said, turning around and finally lifting his gaze to look at her. "I _can _think of one thing that might cheer me up a little."

"And what might that be?" she asked, her breath catching in her throat as she saw how thoroughly aroused he was—his eyes darkened from their usual warm chocolate color to a hue much closer to black, his face flushed, and of course, his erection, which rose proud and stiff from the modest mass of dark brown curls at its base. She felt the warm, wet pulse of her own arousal and she wasn't sure she could keep up the game any longer.

"What do you think, huh?" Booth replied, kneeling onto the bed and stalking towards her on all fours.

He felt his mouth go dry as he looked her over. She was the very picture of womanhood. At five and a half months pregnant, her belly was beautifully round with his child, and the extra pounds she had put on over the course of the pregnancy had gone to accentuate her best features—namely, her round, delicious breasts and the soft curves of her hips and apple-shaped ass. Laying in front of him, her legs falling open as he closed the distance between them, she was without a doubt the tastiest morsel he had ever seen, and it was everything he could do not to devour her. Booth knelt between her legs and laid his hands on the swell of her belly, caressing her skin, admiring the way the subtle stretch marks felt under his fingers.

"God, you look and feel amazing," he whispered as he dropped his hands to the mattress and hovered over her, nuzzling his face into the space between her breasts as she threaded her fingers through his thick brown hair. He kissed her there, then raised his head and smiled at her.

"You still need cheering up?" she asked with a crooked grin.

"Yes," he whispered, kissing his way up her clavicle and neck. "I still feel very depressed about the game," he snickered as he kissed her chin. He moved his mouth just an inch higher and covered her lips with his, moaning softly as she opened her mouth and slid her tongue into his. "Mmmm…" Their mouths grasped at one another hungrily, their tongues tangling together and sliding against lips and teeth until she pulled away, panting.

"I might have something that might cheer you up," she said with a husky giggle, gliding her hands down the rippled surface of his back to his hips and down to the round orbs of his muscular ass. "But you have to look lower," she said, pulling his hips against her. The moment she felt his firm erection press against the underside of her swollen belly, her resolve to maintain the game crumbled away. The hormones of her second trimester had made her pelvic region very sensitive, and she felt her arousal very intensely. She knew she needed no more foreplay to be ready for him—and there was no doubt in her mind she was ready for him, and needed him. "I want you, Booth," she whispered. "I want you inside of me, _now_."

"Yeah?" Booth grunted, twisting his hips against her as he moved a couple of inches back. He leaned back on his haunches and looked at her swollen sex, and though he could tell she was soaked with desire without touching her, he brushed his fingers across her damp curls. He took two fingers and stroked up from her opening—which was dripping with the slippery evidence of her desire—to her clit, causing Brennan to hiss at his touch.

"Don't tease me," she growled. "Just do it."

Needing no further encouragement, Booth pulled his hand away and, moments later, swiped his hard cock against her opening, coating its tip with a bit of her wet arousal before pressing into her.

"Oh my God," he whispered as her wet warmth parted for him. Dropping both of his arms to the mattress on either side of her swollen belly, he slid balls-deep into her and then pulled almost all the way out before driving in again. "You feel so damn good, Bones," he said to her. "So fucking good…"

"Ohhh, fuck—"

Brennan rolled her head to the side as she winced at the inarticulable pleasure she felt. Each time he stroked into her, she groaned, and each time he pulled out again she sucked in a breath, the loss of sensation offset by anticipation of the way the next stroke would fill her up again completely.

"Harder," she begged him. "You won't hurt me or the baby—just do it a little harder, please."

Booth swallowed and nodded, drawing his hips back and driving into her, a bit faster and with a bit more force than he had before. The throaty groan that voiced from his partner told him he'd done right, and so he kept on at it, thrusting in and out of her in what was at first a carefully-controlled rhythm but soon—the way her body closed around him with each and every stroke, so tight, warm and slippery, it made his eyes roll back in his head and unraveled the last threads of his self-control—his movements acquired a momentum of their own.

"Ohhhh, _fuck, _Booth," Brennan moaned loudly as she felt herself being pulled under, drowning in the swirl of mind-numbing sensations, no longer able to feel the tingle in her fingertips as she clawed at the soft skin of his ass. "Ohhh, fuck…ohh my—ohhh, _fuck!"_

Booth rolled his hips as he rocked into her, pressing into her as deeply as he could, forcing himself to open his eyes as he watched the muscles of her face tighten and then slacken at the same moment he felt her nether muscles clench around him and then vibrate as she shattered. He sucked in a deep breath as she came around his cock, and in the seconds that followed, he broke, too, spilling into her at the end of one last, firm stroke.

"Ohhhh," he groaned as the last drops of his release pulsed into her. "Oh my God, Bones. Oh, wow…"

Brennan uttered a brief laugh and opened her eyes as he gently rolled off of her and collapsed next to her in bed.

"Feeling a little less sad about the game?" she asked him with a chuckle.

"Yeah," he replied, panting from his exertions. "I think I'm over it now."

"I'm glad," she said, rolling over to kiss him on the cheek.

"Better luck next year, huh?"

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><p><strong>AN:** _ So I guess I didn't blow my smutwad completely this afternoon. I had a little bit of smutty inspiration left for you guys. _

_Do you think Booth is over his disappointment at the Flyers' loss in the Winter Classic? I think so. _

_Did you like it? __Don't leave me guessing. Please leave a review._

_You know what to do, people. Click that little review button down there._

_Yep, right down there. That's the one._


	7. Manicotti

**Tasty Morsels**

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><p><strong>By:<strong> dharmamonkey  
><strong>Story Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I don't own jack. I am, however, interested in renting Booth. A five-hour minimum would apply.

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><p><strong>AN:**_ Tag to episode 9x2 ("The Cheat in the Retreat") and one of the funniest Bones lines ever. _

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Manicotti<strong>

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><p><em>Booth, where are you? You were supposed to pick me up 20 minutes ago.<em>

Sorry case review w/baby agent ran long. Almost done here

How_ much longer, Booth?_

Impatient much? Got abt 15 min more here & then I'll be OMW

_OMW? _

OMW = On my way :-) I wanna knock out 1 more thing since we have to drive down to Fredericksburg tmr for the Nelson interview

_Please hurry_._ We have to pick up Christine at Dad's by 10._

Did u eat lunch?

_..._

U didn't, did u?

_Why do you ask that?_

Because ur usually not this impatient about leaving work

_Be that as it may, you're late and we agreed we were going to go out to dinner tonight._

Sorry bb but had to meet with Shup re a shift in his Anacostia case

_So you'll be here when?_

20 min maybe? Hey I know u wanted to get Thai 2nite but I'm hungry. I want something more substantial.

_Substantial?_

Maybe Italian? I can call Salvatores & get a reserv for 7

_..._

? If that's a prob, I guess I can let this paperwork roll over to tmr PM when we get back from F'burg

_Roll it over, huh, Tony? Like a manicotti? _

_..._

__You feel like a stuffed shell tonight, doll?__

I feel like stuffin' sometin tonite, sweetheart, but not no stinkin shells

__Is that so?__

What do u think, Roxie?

__I dunno, Tony. I think I'd prefer a cannoli tonight.__

A cannoli?

__Sure. A nice, firm, hard cannoli with a sweet, creamy filling. I can almost taste it on my tongue now. Mmmm...__

...

_So sweet. So creamy. It almost melts in your mouth, you know? Delicious._

ur killin me here Roxie

__So, when are you coming to pick me up for dinner, Tony?__

Screw dinner Roxie ... we're goin straight to dessert

__What about the reservation for 7?__

Screw reservations ... be there in 5

__Are you sure, doll?__

Absofuckinglutely

__But you said you were hungry. That's not nearly enough time for Salvatore's to roll and bake manicotti...__

There'll be rollin tonite Roxie but it won't be manicotti

____But what about dinner? ____

Leftovers

__Are you sure?__

I'm downstairs waiting in the garage ... I'm the one in the black Sequoia w/ the Statue of Liberty in his pants

__OMW__

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><p><strong>AN:**__ I've never written one like this, but I was thinking about that line from last night's ep and, well, there ya go. ____This was definitely a drabble but it's what the muse burped out so I hope it was good for a quick laugh.__

__Feel free to leave a review. (It's like tipping. Optional but it encourages attentive service. Or, in this case, my muse.)__

__Thanks for reading!__


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